


Can't

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:00:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24170206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Bashir’s bored in quarantine.
Relationships: Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Comments: 14
Kudos: 66





	Can't

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Isolation is dreadfully dull, even when it’s done in the relative comfort of his own quarters, and he still has full access to the station computer and all of his medical logs. When it first began, Julian actually fooled himself into thinking it would be an _opportunity_ —free of the usual station minutia, he’d have more time to dedicate to writing papers. That was all well and good for the first week. He flew through two new essays. On the second week, he even discovered a cure to the common Grazerite cold. On the third, he reorganized his entire history of Starfleet personal logs. A month into Deep Space Nine’s social lockdown, Julian’s running out of things to do, and he’s officially _bored_. 

The personal replicator now mounted in his quarters, capable of such small niceties as coffee, materializes a fresh raktajino. He stares at the wall as he sips it, because there’s nothing else interesting to stare at. It’s not even worth turning around to face the porthole—he’s already memorized the stars in this sector. At least he does leave his quarters sometimes, more than the average person, as small medical emergencies do still crop up. It puts him at risk of catching the Mrennenimian flu, which has swept through the station like a tidal wave and triggered the strictest long-term quarantine regiment he’s ever faced, but sometimes that risk seems worth the chance to stretch his legs. And to see other people. Seeing someone through a viewscreen just can’t live up to real, _live_ contact. He misses hearing Jadzia laugh next to his ear and watching Odo fuss across the promenade. He misses his _life_.

His computer buzzes, and with a little sigh and a long sip, Julian wanders over. He plunks onto the bed and pulls a PADD off his nightstand, transferring the call there—there’s no point sitting up straight at his desk anymore. Most of the station staff haven’t even been wearing their uniforms, and if it was someone important, they’d just use the combadge now clipped to Julian’s deep green sweater. Sure enough, a familiar gray face flickers across the tiny screen. 

“Good afternoon, Garak,” Julian greets. A thin smile stretches across Garak’s pale lips, as enigmatic and predatory as it would be up close, if they were leaning across one of the little tables at Quark’s. Julian never thought he’d actually miss the clamour of overzealous Dabo players and the pain of getting gouged by Ferengi prices. 

“Ah, my dear doctor,” Garak all but purrs in response. He’s clearly propped up in his own bed, which is unusual for him—he tends to hover near the nondescript walls, so that Julian can’t tell precisely where he is or why. While the bedroom setting is just a casual convenience for Julian, he doesn’t doubt it’s a deliberate choice for Garak. Somehow, it feels far more _intimate_ —Garak may as well be sprawled out along the mattress in nothing at all, rather than primly clad in his usual geometric suit. “I’m pleased to have caught you at home.”

Julian doesn’t laugh at the obvious joke, though a grin does tug at his lips. He almost rolls his eyes. He could hardly be anywhere else. The back of his head thunks against the wall, a tortured sigh escaping his lips. He doesn’t have the usual energy for Garak’s games, although another part of him craves that normalcy. “What do you want, Garak?”

“Oh? Do I have to want something?” Garak’s dark eyes sparkle, the smile reaching them, crinkling the edges—there’s something about that _look_ that Julian’s always found irritatingly endearing, even when he’s been sure it’s sinister. Julian opens his mouth to accept the aimless company, even though he knows darn well that Garak _always_ has a goal. But Garak muses, “I suppose I was wondering about our current situation. As the chief medical officer, I’m sure you’re the leading authority on when exactly we’ll be able to leave our quarters again.”

“You’ll be the first to know,” Julian dryly answers. Of course, Commander Sisko will _actually_ be the first to know, and it’ll be up to Sisko when exactly those changes will be implemented. He could tell Garak that it’s far more likely they’ll be slowly, cautiously weaning back into their social lives, one lowered curfew and opened storefront at a time, but he doesn’t bother. He doubts Garak actually wants his medical advice. 

As he thought, Garak dramatically sighs, “I suppose it’ll be awhile before we visit Quark’s again, then. But perhaps, once you realize that the Cardassian constitution is much too strong for this nuisance, we’ll be able to at least share a glass of kanar in my quarters.” Julian opens his mouth, but Garak rolls over him, dulling down the heavy-handed flirting as soon as it’s come, “Simply to discuss the thrilling tale I recommended you last week, of course. I trust you’ve had a chance to read it by now?”

By the time this is over, it’s quite likely Julian will run out of patience for Garak’s round-about discussions entirely, and he’ll demand entrance to Garak’s quarters for the brash, straight-forward, highly _physical_ activity he craves. A shiver runs down Julian’s spine from the mere thought, from staring at the hard ridges surrounding Garak’s eyes and the concave dip in his forehead—right where Julian’s fantasized about licking him. It takes considerable effort to push the thought out of his head—bad enough he’s resorted to such daydreams in private; he can’t risk letting Garak see it in his heated gaze. He suffers enough of Garak’s vague torture as it is. 

He swallows down the extra saliva in his throat and says, “I have. I did have a few odd questions.” Against his better judgment, he suggests, “Perhaps we could have lunch during the discussion, if you haven’t already eaten?” Just like old times. Except mounted up on screens, unable to have their knees bump beneath the table or Garak’s hand skim his every time it reaches for its glass.

“Ah, if only,” Garak sighs, to Julian’s surprise—it’s rare for Garak to reject him. “I’m aware of just how busy and stressed the medical staff has been of late. I’d hate to monopolize your valuable daytime.” 

They’ve already done everything they can on the current situation. Of course he has a team dedicated to a cure, and he pores over their work every time a new update comes through, and he plugs away at it too when he’s not at a mental wall. But nothing’s on now—his current findings are waiting on Jadzia’s input, and nothing requires his immediate attention. He’s surprised Garak’s not pushing for that. 

Except Garak leans back against his headboard, adjusting his posture just enough to shift a fraction of his thighs into view. Julian’s eyesight is sharp enough to catch the sliver of _skin_ —Garak’s wearing a tight pair of Cardassian-cut briefs and nothing else from the waist-down. Garak purrs, “However... I’m sure even a doctor’s work must slow down at night. Perhaps you could call me for a _late_ dinner?” Julian instantly understands. Garak grins like he knows it, eyes alight and hungry.

He hangs up before Julian’s ready. A shiver of frustration runs through Julian’s hands. 

He remains in his quarters like a good, responsible member of the station, though he’s _very_ sorely tempted to make an exception for a not-so-medical house call.


End file.
